


longest way round is the shortest way home

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s only that I overheard some of my ladies gossiping today, and they said… They said their husbands talked to them while they- ” She breaks off and makes a small, embarrassed sound, then visibly composes herself. “I shouldn’t have listened, but it made me wonder, and I thought of you, and…well. I wanted to know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	longest way round is the shortest way home

The question comes out of the blue. One moment, Jon had been telling her of the day’s events as she curried Ghost’s coat by the fire, and the next she’d turned to him with a plaintive expression, feet tucked beneath her and hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Jon, why don’t you ever talk to me?”

At first, Jon can only blink at her in confusion. “I’ve been talking to you for the last quarter hour,” he offers. A knot forms in his stomach, hard like a peach stone, as he wonders for a moment if he’d said or done something wrong. It’s an entirely irrational fear; no woman could be kinder than Sansa, or have a gentler temperament. Jon has never seen her cross, nor heard her raise her voice in anger. It’s only that he wishes so much to please her. The years they were apart were filled with such pain and disappointment for her. It’s perhaps arrogant to think that he could erase that from her memory, but at least he can keep from bringing any further unhappiness to her. She smiles at him, her eyes pleating at the corners, and the knot dissolves.

“Yes, I know. I don’t mean _talk_ , I mean…” A fierce blush spreads across her cheeks, and she drops her eyes to her lap as she makes an apologetic sound. There’s nothing especially suggestive in the gesture, but somehow Jon knows as much as he’s ever known anything that what she speaks of is entirely intimate in nature. The marriage may be young, but the familiarity between them is not. But still; he’d like to hear her say it.

“What is it you mean?” She lifts her chin, pushing her shoulders back in the manner of someone facing a difficult topic head-on.

“In our bed,” she says, blushing even more fiercely but keeping his gaze. “When we. Um. When we lie together.” Jon’s whole body is alert now, even though he’d been relaxed and nearly sleepy only moments ago.

“Would you wish me to talk?” he asks. “When we’re abed?” She takes a deep breath, her hands no longer folded neatly but clutching her skirts now, bunching the fabric over her thighs between clenched fingers.

“It’s only that I overheard some of my ladies gossiping today, and they said… They said their husbands talked to them while they- ” She breaks off and makes a small, embarrassed sound, then visibly composes herself. “I shouldn’t have listened, but it made me wonder, and I thought of you, and…well. I wanted to know.”

Her words work on Jon like a spark on tinder. She thought of him. She thought of _him_ , when listening to her ladies titter over their husbands' proclivities, when thinking of lovemaking. Jon had always hoped she found marriage to him agreeable, but he’d never dared to hope she thought of him in such ways. It’s enough to make his face flush to match hers.

“I would talk to you if it would please you,” he says cautiously, trying to control his eager response to her. She doesn’t answer, but he can see by her shy smile that it would please her indeed. “What sort of things would you wish me to say?” From another man, such a question might be a tease, a seduction. For Jon, it’s honest; Ygritte was a lifetime ago and if Jon ever spoke to her in the throes of need, he can’t imagine his words were especially pleasing. He was mostly a tongue-tied boy back then, and he’s only been with Sansa since.

“Oh,” she says, one hand fluttering nervously like a bird. “I don’t know, just…things, I suppose.” Jon fights to keep his lips from quirking into an amused smile.

“Things?”

“Oh, do shut up,” Sansa tells him, but her own lips are twitching. “This is so strange to talk about just sitting here."

“Perhaps a bed might be a more suitable place for such a discussion?” Jon says, his blood pulsing heavily beneath his skin. Shyness seems to overtake her again, but she nods. Jon pushes himself up from his chair and holds his hand out to her, helping her rise from the floor. Her skin is soft as he sweeps his thumb over the back of her hand. Nearly everything about her is soft, or at least everything on the outside; he knows her well enough to know the core of steel within her.

At their bed, they occupy themselves with shedding shoes and clothing, Sansa seeming as grateful for the distraction as Jon feels. He considers removing his smallclothes, but decides against it when Sansa climbs atop the mattress in her nightrail, tucking her feet beneath the furs thrown carelessly across the foot of the bed and looking at him in invitation. Jon climbs up and stretches out on his side next to her, propping his head on one hand.

“So,” he says, placing his other hand on her belly, noting with pleasure how it quivers at his touch, her shift trembling in faint echo. “How would you like me to begin?”

“Just tell me what you like,” she suggests. There are a thousand things Jon likes when it comes to Sansa, but suddenly his mind is a blank, rendered clear by the prospect of sharing those things with her. She smiles at his obvious discomfiture, covering his hand on her stomach with her own. “You stay silent,” she says, a dimple creasing her cheek. “Is there naught about me you like?”

“Your hair is pretty,” he blurts. “And I like kissing you.” As soon as the words leave his lips he wishes the ground would swallow him up whole. Gods, your _hair_ is pretty? Even Hodor could do better. Sansa breaks into bright peals of laughter, a sweet smile spreading over her face.

“Thank you,” she says, and for all that she’s teasing him, the words are genuine.

“I’m utter bollocks at this,” Jon groans. “You deserve better.” She stays his words with her fingertips at his lips, then lifts her hand to twine through the hair at his temple.

“I like you kissing me as well,” she says. “I like how you seem as if you could kiss me forever and never grow tired of it.”

“I could,” Jon answers, his embarrassment nearly forgotten at the soft, low sound of her voice, and how it caresses the words as her hand caresses him. Her eyes drop to his lips, and he takes her cue, dipping his head to capture her mouth in a kiss. He marvels once again, as he always does, at the sweet taste of her. He wonders if kissing Sansa will ever seem anything less than thrilling.

She curls into him, tilting her head to meet his, and for some time they merely taste and explore each other’s mouths, the idea of talking momentarily forgotten. But only momentarily, for when Jon ducks his head to layer her jaw and neck with open-mouthed kisses, Sansa speaks again, her words vibrating in her throat beneath Jon’s tongue.

“What is it you like about kissing me?” she asks on a gasp.

“I like that it’s you,” he answers without thinking, only realizing that it probably wasn’t what she meant once he hears himself say the words. But she shudders against him, a mewling sound escaping her lips, and Jon realizes he accidentally said just the right thing. Seems he’s not as bollocks at this talking business as he thought. When he brings his mouth back to hers, there’s an urgency between them, a need that only grows as he tastes every hidden corner of her mouth. He rolls into the cradle of her hips, swallowing her gasp when he rocks against her, the thin barriers of her rail and his smallclothes only serving to heighten the friction of their bodies. Again and again Jon rocks against her, until her heartbeat is frantic against his chest and her heels press into the backs of his thighs. She tightens her fingers in his hair and pulls his head up, smiling at him with suggestion that somehow manages to be both lurid and innocent.

“I like you kissing me in other places as well,” she says, her hips bucking up into his with the words. Her cheeks pink with her own daring, and Jon can’t help but laugh in shocked delight, pressing his lips to hers to stifle the sound.

“Do you, then,” he says when he’s pulled away. “Where, I wonder? Perhaps here?” He touches his tongue to the notch between her collarbones.

“That _is_ nice,” she breathes, “but perhaps not what I meant.”

“Here then.” The loosened laces of her shift give way at his tug and he presses his lips to her breastbone, laving the spot with his tongue before turning his face to press a kiss to the gently rounded side of her breast where it’s revealed by the deep vee of the shift’s neckline. He’s never teased her this way before – their coupling having been something more than rote but something less than playful – and now he wonders why.

“Warmer,” she teases, her fingers kneading at his nape in a way he feels down to his toes. He remembers the game she used to play with Bran, perpetually looking for some hidden object while he gleefully called out “Warm!” and “Cold!” to guide her to it. Such a childish game, yet it makes his blood surge a way that’s not childish in the slightest. It feels as if she’s claiming him as hers, in a way she never did when they were children. It makes him want to claim her just the same.

“Then here,” he says, brushing his lips over the peak of her breast where it pushes against the linen of her shift. She gasps, her back arching slightly and her fingers tightening reflexively in his hair.

“Definitely warmer,” she says on a laugh that grows shaky when Jon opens his mouth over her breast and laves the peak with his tongue, leaving the cloth damp and clinging to her skin when he pulls away. Her body is moving in a sinuous curve beneath him now, straining for contact, for relief. Grinning, Jon transfers his attentions to her other breast, drawing the peak into his mouth with firm pressure, waiting for her telltale cry, for her breathing to break and unravel.

“Warm is good,” he rasps, distantly wondering at who this person is who speaks with his voice in such seductive tones, “but I want you to be hot. Where are you hot for me, Sansa?” Her body twists in response, squirming against him as she makes a mewling sound that goes straight to Jon’s crotch. He moves to press a kiss to the soft bell of her abdomen beneath her shift, but she surprises him by catching his head with both hands and pushing it lower with gentle pressure, between the thighs she’s parting wide to welcome him. He grins wolfishly up at her, his cock throbbing at her assertiveness, her willingness to ask for what she wants unabashed, despite her innate shyness. No one who knew Sansa outside this bedchamber would ever dream her capable of such a thing, which only makes it all the more potent to Jon.

“Do I seem as if I could kiss you forever and never tire of it here too?” he asks, relishing the spark of surprise in her eyes at his words, followed quickly by pleasure.

“Oh yes,” she pants. Her bare feet slide up his sides and Jon takes advantage of it, bringing his arms between and beneath her thighs, his hands wrapped around to press at the delicate spurs of her hipbones. The warmth between her thighs radiates through her shift, her scent faint but intoxicating in Jon’s nose. It makes him feel wild, heady, like a man possessed. Like a man who can tell her just what she does to him.

“That’s only…” he says, pausing to press his open mouth over her cloth-covered mound. “Because I love…” Now with his tongue, tracing the shadowy cleft just visible beneath the now-damp fabric. “The taste…” He nips up the hem of her shift, throwing it over her belly with a feral shake of his head that has her giggling even as her hips twitch and her fingers tighten in his hair.

“Of your cunt,” he finishes, the words fervent and admiring. Then he opens his mouth over her. He doesn’t lick or suck at her, nor even move at all, but she cries out and throbs against his tongue all the same, the flavor of her arousal instant and unmistakable. Her hands fist so tightly in his hair that it’ll be a wonder he’s not bald come morning. Drunk with her, he wonders at the force of her response. He’s never used such vulgarities with her before, both in deference to what he thought would be her delicate sensibilities, and also because he’s never been greatly inclined to such talk himself, but now…

“You like that,” he realizes aloud. To test his theory, he works his hand around and sets his thumb at the top of her sex, pulling it taut so he can see every pulse, every hitch as pleasure and anticipation flutter through her most tender flesh. “You like that I love the taste of your cunt.” She gives a strangled moan this time, the flesh beneath his thumb jerking in shivery spasms. “Or you just like to hear me say cunt,” he adds, smiling when her next moan is mingled with a laugh.

“Both,” she pants. 

“Either is fine,” Jon says, tugging gently with his thumb, watching her tense and squirm and shiver. “I’m not choosy.” Then he sets his mouth against her again and devotes himself to making her peak again, and then again, pulling away only to offer her torrents of tender filth that arouse him as much as they seem to arouse her, telling her she tastes sweet, so sweet, gods, but he could taste nothing else ever again and be sated. Her toes are pressed to the tops of his shoulders, her knees up to her chest and her back arched so sharply that he can no longer see her face if he looks up, only her belly and breasts stained a deep, achingly lovely pink with her shift rucked up above them. He would bring her to release yet another time after her third peak – or possibly her fourth, he’s lost count – but she pushes him away, her feet rigid on his shoulders and her hand tucked over her cunt as she shakes in the aftermath of her pleasure. Jon can only stare. He’s never seen her so undone, never been responsible for such unbridled pleasure. Perhaps he should feel smug, but he only feels awe; somehow he knows he didn’t cause such raw, primal feeling but merely unlocked it. When she tugs her shift into place and rolls to the side, her knees tucked up to her chest, he crawls up the mattress to lie at her back, pressing a gentle kiss to the spur of bone at the base of her neck. Immediately she reaches back to feel for his arm, pulling it around her and tugging him close until he’s molded against her like cutlery in a drawer.

“Thank you,” she says, the words prim and delicate in contrast to what they just shared, “for indulging me.” A laugh bubbles in Jon’s throat. He buries his face against her hair.

“I only told you what I like about you,” he says.

“Perhaps I could tell you what I like about you in return,” she suggests. Jon’s laugh this time sounds distinctly more choked.

“Were you to tell me such things right now, I fear I might explode .” She twists in his arms – speaking of things that might make him explode – until she’s facing him, an impish smile dimpling her cheeks.

“Even if I told you how I love how you always wait for my invitation before entering my chambers?” she says, soft sincerity in her eyes. “Or how you stroke the back of my hand with your thumb whenever we must be Lord and Lady of Winterfell?”

“You noticed that?” Jon is dumbfounded, his heart suddenly feeling as if it may explode as well. “Those might be worse,” he says with heartfelt honesty. For a moment he fears she’ll misinterpret him, but her smile deepens, softens; it’s the sort of look he could believe is that of a woman in love. It lasts only a moment before becoming teasing again, but Jon knows he’ll never have the slightest trouble remembering it down to every detail.

“Of course,” she says as she drags a fingertip down the center of his chest, “I could still tell you the other sorts of things. It’s hours til dawn yet.”

Jon rolls onto his back, pulling her with him. He gives her the same sort of smile she’d given him, the one he’ll never forget. 

“Do your worst,” he says, and means every bit of it.

 

 

_ title from Ulysses by James Joyce _


End file.
